Love is Funny
by talesofus
Summary: As he was drowning, the water threatening to choke his lungs, he saw Hermione's face. And at the moment – Draco Malfoy desperately wished he could be Hermione Granger.
1. Chapter 1

**Love is Funny**

_Chapter 1_

Draco Malfoy's head hurt.

It nagged and nagged and nagged, insistent, deepening, eyes closed or eyes open, vibrating, ricocheting inside his head, touching every single corner, infecting single crevice, so angry and .. _vicious _and .. _hateful _that all he wanted to do was pop open his head and crush it with his bare hands.

"It's a six-month contract. Let's see how it goes and we'll take it from there."

_Let's see if you can manage it for a measly six months' time, __**loser. **_

Gotcha.

Even though the man before him sat on the other side of the table - the side beneath his side, the side which came to his side and asked for help, the side which was supposed to be the one asking for something from his side – Draco Malfoy felt like a lesser man.

And that fueled the fire in his head even more.

"Okay."

The words felt acidic, but he signed the papers with the age-old Malfoy poise he'd been taught from before he could even walk. His hand, rock steady, never once betrayed the fire raging inside him. A careful once-over later, the man was gone.

Malfoy Industries was bankrupt. His father was in jail, his alcoholic mother was under house arrest, their family assets frozen with only the company up and running, left to him. And so, it limped.

As the clock hit 6 on a Tuesday, Draco Malfoy felt fatigue in a way he'd never felt before.

He couldn't do it.

Whatever the fuck he was supposed to do, he couldn't. He didn't know how. How to keep his head over the water that kept on increasing .. and increasing.

As he was drowning, the water threatening to choke his lungs, he saw Hermione's face.

Hermione who was invincible.

Hermione who couldn't be broken.

Hermione who had beaten all the odds.

And at the moment – Draco Malfoy desperately wished he could be Hermione Granger.

Apparating outside his apartment, Draco relaxed. Not having to pretend anymore, his forehead scrunched as the symphony of pain inside his head reached a crescendo.

Celebrating the death of one Draco Malfoy, one nerve ending at a time.

"Ooomph." _Fuck, fuck you. Fuck everything. Fuck me._

Inside now, he made tea. Added a shot of a potion he'd made himself. Taking the tumbler, he sat down on a recliner and added the see-through charm on his ceiling. The pitch-black sky stared back at him.

His life, as he knew it, was gone. He wondered if this was how the Ministry preferred to kill him instead. Nothing seemed to work. Nothing he did solved anything. There were problems he wasn't even aware of and each day they mocked him. Made fun of his incompetencies. The heir apparent of one of the oldest pureblood families, the Slytherin Prince, the pride of the house of Malfoy, the one who had it all – was gone.

The Ministry had played it well.

His life was his own Azkaban.

_No Dementors needed, thank you Sir. _

He felt the potion seep in, slowly, trickling into his brain .. and it was calm .. again. Thoughts faded, his eyelids, heavy, drooped. It was during these moments – when he first realized the _absence_ of pain, Draco dreamt of love.

Floating between his conscious and subconscious, where everything was real and a wish all at one, Draco saw a smile. The potion inside his bloodstream morphed into hands. Gently taking away his pain. Through his half lid eyes, Draco saw the sky. Felt himself falling through it. Falling into sleep. Numb. His fist loosened, and the tumbler slipped. The face, peering at him but .. he couldn't see. He knew she smiled but he never saw her lips.

It was okay. She was there. For him. Everything was going to be okay. She'd taken away the pain and now she lulled him to sleep.

He felt the tension disappear. His shoulder blades, the joints .. relaxed. Thinking of that face, Draco smiled.

As long as she was there, it was going to be alright.

...

On the other side of the town, in a dimly lit coffee shop sat Hermione Granger.

Her straight as rain black hair fell around her face as she looked deep inside her cup. She heard the white noise around her fading, lessening, people going back home after a long day's work. Going back home, to what?

She didn't have any. She had an apartment, a box of concrete where she slept, and on days when she absolutely had to, she ate. It had a bed, her clothes, a bare minimum bathroom and a kitchen. And empty space. Empty floors and walls. And one single solitary Philodendron which crept along her window. And really, the only reason she did go back every day. To check on it.

The rest of the time, Hermione worked. Her office at MLE housed a bookshelf that had hidden shelves and nooks and an infinite capacity of books, and a lock opened only by its master. When everyone went home, Hermione sat near it and read. Then when night fell, she charmed her hair and slipped into coffee shops. Sat and sipped coffee and let herself think – for the first time in a day.

The only jewelry she wore was a simple gold band on her left hand. Every day, for the first few minutes, she looked at it and missed her parents. Saw their faces the moment the _Obliviate _hit them. Then the faces were gone. Like routine. Next came her friends. Her beloved Harry and Ron. Her rock. And in a world without Voldemort, her .. _distant admirers. _They met every Friday and Hermione heard them talk. And she listened. She'd stopped talking sometime back, but neither seemed to have noticed. They were happy to meet and talk and share anecdotes from the week they'd had. And when they asked how her week had been, she said "Great!" To which they showered her with love and affection and respect and said how, of course Hermione was the youngest person ever to be directly placed in MLE. Hermione Granger, their friend and the reason they'd made it out alive, was the brightest witch of their age.

In a distant past, Hermione used to talk about books. Poetry, science, history. They'd listen and move on to the next topic. Once, she'd said how a senior colleague had made snide remarks about how the Ministry would even make her the Minister if they could because they couldn't seem to give her enough money after the War. One hit wonder, he'd said. They'd listened, patiently, and had told her to get over it. She remembers how she felt. Then one last time, when she'd been stressed about a petition to the Ministry, they'd laughed and made a face. Brightest witch of her age, of course everything was going to be fine!

The cafe owner gave her the 10-minute signal. He had a home to get back to, too. The world outside had slowed down. No more thinking. She'd go back to her apartment, change and get into bed. Then sleep. No more thinking. No more thinking if this was all there was to life. No more panicking about a future where she was old and couldn't work anymore, and had to stay in her apartment all day long. By herself. Be the brightest witch of her age, quiet and lonely and miserable.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

On Saturday night, Draco stares at the thing that had nearly brought him to the streets when he'd bought it. Black metal gleamed in the moonlight. He supposed it was both the worst and the best decision he'd made at that time. He'd been delusional, used to buying things without a thought, used to getting things the moment he wanted, and hadn't really contemplated the aftermath of having to pay a price .. he couldn't really afford.

But now that it was his, he relished the sight of it. He was a man who enjoyed the finer things in life, had been taught to appreciate art from a young age – and to him, this was art.

The cool, sleek bike was now his pride and joy.

Quidditch had been a statement for his father – playing for the team and winning matches and being the _object _of envy amongst his peers. In his later years, when things got too real and Quidditch seemed too trivial, he'd grown out of it. But flying ...

Flying made him feel alive. And this machine – the beast – did exactly that.

Barely 20 minutes later, he was flying through the outskirts of the town. The wind hit his face and burnt his skin. His hair flew, his heart thumped. On Saturdays, Draco _lived. _Forgot about the war and his parents and the company and his life and just _lived._

* * *

Sundays were the hardest for Hermione Granger. On Sundays there was no work. On Sundays Ron and Harry made plans and went on double dates. On Sundays they asked her to join and Hermione barely resisted the urge to snap at them.

This was a strange new phase in her life. The all-too-sudden slap of existentialism had hit her all-too-hard.

Armed with her scissors, Hermione methodically cut down the philodendron plant which had in a few months' time grown all over her window. Each young node held a ring of tiny tender roots. She'd place them in pots and within a few days, they'd settle in. Sprout healthy baby leaves. Start the process all over again.

So easy, and yet, so hard.

Sometimes the roots couldn't fend for themselves when cut off too early from the mother plant. The leaves would droop down sadly, then wilt, then die.

Hermione didn't know she was going to live, or die. Didn't know if her roots were strong enough, or this new soil, kind enough. Maybe not enough light, or water.

But damned if she knew what.

* * *

They met on Monday on the street.

Draco Malfoy stood in front of his office, drenched from head to toe. Through sheets of heavy rain, he looked annoyed, frustrated, and depressed all at once. She supposed it was years and years of seeing ... and observing his face which helped her notice the difference in his stance. No more cocky, no more being absolutely certain that he was the king of this kingdom.

Hermione felt a perverse satisfaction, something she didn't remember feeling before.

Crossing the street, she stood in front of him.

"Hello, Malfoy."

"Granger."

The war and its prejudices aside, Hermione Granger had hated Draco Malfoy for as long as she could remember. He represented everything she despised with all her being – he was the most selfish person she knew and too aware of his fortunes. He'd strutted around the halls of Hogwarts and reminded her of being an outsider every second of every day. Every other quality he had had been too insignificant compared to these traits he had so poudly possessed.

After all was said and done, all things forgotten and forgiven, all notions of blood purity and status reset, Draco Malfoy still made her want to punch him. Hard.

...

Draco stared at the girl – woman – in front of him and wondered if she knew how palpable her hatred for him was. Her hair, though reasonably tame now, glistened in the rain and sat like a sad wet mat on her head. The fact that she was better than him in every single thing burned his arse, which infuriated him even more.

At least he had better hair.

_Way_ better.

Always a pro at controlling his expressions, Draco disdainfully glanced at her hair first, then at her eyes. Her eyes dared him to make a comment.

"Delightful weather, isn't it?"

"How's your company going, Malfoy?"

That fucking chit of a girl.

After the war, everyone had made a wordless pact. With his parents out of the equation, Draco had been a part of it. Civility was the order of the day. With the War and their graduation, they'd grown up too much in too little time. Even though they still couldn't hold hands and sing songs around a campfire, they could be civil. Mature. They had to be. For the sake of .. everyone, but most of all, themselves.

And he was. Mature. And civil. And perfectly capable of wringing her neck.

Look how her neck would fit so perfectly in his grip.

With no audience in sight, Draco glared at her. They weren't allowed to express these emotions with audience in sight, because they – who had lived through the war and suffered the hardest – had to set an example. Had to show how times had changed. And it had.

But hating Granger, as he had realized only after the War – went beyond her blood. She fucking infuriated him just by being. Little Miss Perfect. Unshakable.

She glared back - "Hope the last merger with Yorke went well."- and fucking smiled.

"Keeping tabs are we?" He smiled back, looking at her neck. His palm itched.

She had, because that newly discovered perverse satisfaction thrilled her. She knew the people who came here with their business. She knew the ones who stayed, and the ones who left. She knew his investors, she knew his board members. She knew his clients. Whenever a deal soured, Hermione knew.

"Isn't that what you do with friends?"

One of these days Draco was going to deform his jawline. Gritting his teeth, he turned to leave.

"Have a good day, Granger."


	3. Chapter 3

The last month of the year started off well enough.

Between dodging invites to happy this and happy that and working on automation almost 12 hours a day, Hermione regained her footing. Back at her apartment, the baby plants seemed to be taking off well. She felt a quick tug somewhere deep inside whenever a new leaf unfurled, decorated by a collar of new roots at its base.

She saw Malfoy twice the first week. He'd lost an account, a big one, a _traditional _one, and that showed on his face. Malfoy Industries was going the drain. It seemed to her he was making all the wrong decisions and every single one resulted in ugly disasters. And Hermione enjoyed the show from the front seat.

She knew how horrible it was – and exactly what she'd been forced to live through, and yet, it made her feel ... better. Just the thought of it made her hunch. Here was Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age and a successful young professional, celebrated war hero and a role model to many, deriving her pleasure from The World's Biggest Git's failures.

For a minute, in the middle of a lunch break, Hermione frowned as the thoughts formed a coherent string. Draco Malfoy was the only one who broke her impeccable moral compass. She'd hated a handful of people in her life, but nothing compared to the primal, basic hatred she had for him. The thought wasn't pleasant – because it only meant he had a power over her nobody else had, not even herself.

...

"How is the Philodendron doing?"

Hermione's smiled bloomed. One of the brightest spots of her otherwise dreadfully dull life was when she told Neville about her baby. The plant had been from Neville's shop, where he carefully hand-picked magical and non-magical plants for his nursery along with extensively dealing with a variety of plant products and organic substitutes. "It's beautiful, Neville. All five of my cuttings this month seem to have rooted well."

Neville gave her his winning smile. Hermione wanted to be as pleased with life as this man before her was. Neville had been offered a position as a teaching assistant at Hogwarts, then at one of the most reputed apothecaries as a junior researcher, but he'd turned both of them down. What had started as a small nursery in a small nook of a place had transformed into a sprawling business that currently employed 15 people in various positions.

Neville's love for plants and everything associated with it made Hermione happy in a way Ron and Harry's Friday visits never could.

They stood outside his shop where Neville talked about an extension he planned to start next year. An exclusive section where people could find environmentally friendly products of daily use. Contribute towards a healthier environment. Hermione was going to sneak in her idea of a small bookstore with books and magazines on that subject the moment he started on his present plans.

"Hey, is that Malfoy?"

Indeed it was. Looking like an angry ferret and walking .. in their direction?

"Longbottom."

"Malfoy."

"I need to speak with you Granger."

"No."

Neville looked at her weirdly. She'd never been rude to Draco Malfoy when other people were around. Dammnit.

"I'm busy, Malfoy. I have to be back in a few minutes."

"I won't take up much of your time. Excuse me."

And grabbing her by the elbow, he made a beeline towards the back of the building. Fuming inside, she let him.

"What the fuck Mal-"

"_What the fuck, Granger!"_

Anger radiated out of him and seeped hotly into her pores. A vein throbbed above his left eye. Her fist balled up.

"What do you mean?"

"You told Yorke he was better off with a more stable – respectable – company! He signed a premature termination contract and owled that fucking thing to me this morning. That bastard had the gall to smirk at me and say his account was far more important and he wasn't willing to take any chances – a sentiment even Hermione Granger shared. Even. Hermione. Granger."

"I-"

And she stopped. Not the way it seemed, but then she could hardly explain that to the towering, pale mass of red hot fury that stood before her. She knew the man, who currently owned the third largest sporting goods company, had reservations about Malfoy's company. Which he'd told her about the last time they met at Ron's house. She'd politely listened, inwardly pleased, and had nodded along. Then in conclusion, had merely pointed out his worries were justified.

Something he'd obviously very generously pointed out to Draco Malfoy, when he withdrew his account.

"I just said –"

"I don't care, Granger. But you need to give me a fair warning the next time you plan to stab me in the back. And do it right after you politely advise someone to fuck me over, which is exactly what you did!"

He left, leaving her too jarred to react. Her subconscious guilt at being pleased about his bankrupt company wormed its way into her conscious mind. She wanted to go up to him right then and tell him it wasn't how Yorke had made it seem. But then Yorke hadn't been too far off the truth either.

Anger at Malfoy and at herself entwined into an ugly knot insider her head. She hadn't really thought her passing comment would be placed in such a context. And the only thing that bugged Hermione more than not having control over her thoughts, was not having control over her actions.

So she went after him. And without saying goodbye to her friend, apparated to her office.

* * *

By seven thirty, Hermione had mentally prepared herself a bazillion times for her visit to Malfoy's office for the very first time. She'd always thought she'd make it to the grave with as little contact with the git and his empire as possible, but there she was. She stood outside the regal building and wondered how he would react. There was no way he would expect it, since she herself hadn't expected it either – until three hours before, when indignation and wrath and guilt had damn near bulldozed her down.

She had to explain.

What, she did not know.

She left her name with his secretary who was preparing to leave. Something had told her he'd be there in his office, even if it was way past official hours. And he was. Striding in her direction. Anger shooting out of him like well-aimed bullets.

His secretary had left, and suddenly, the building seemed more ominous than ever before.

"We're not going to talk in my office. I don't trust you."

He started walking in a different direction, expecting her to follow.

A long corridor led into an empty balcony, beside a seemingly forgotten broom closet. Malfoy opened the windows letting out a cloud of dust and looked at her.

"I didn't mean it." _Liar. _

"I don't believe you."

Her jaw tightened. Guilt tried to take over, as it always did, but his goddamn face and the anger it inspired in her took over.

"You deserve it, you arrogant git! How could I tell him otherwise when he was right? You and your company have done nothing to establish any sense of trust in your clients! You have no sense of business! You still expect people to trip over their feet and bring their business to you just because you're a Malfoy! But being tied to the Malfoy Industry is a liability to them now! And you haven't given them any reason to trust you either! You're still sticking to the archaic ways and expecting it to work! You're damn right I meant it! You have done nothing to deserve my goodwill either! So I'll speak the truth when I damn well choose and don't you dare think I'd let you speak to me like this the next time!"

Malfoy looked like a dead man. His skin had gone paler, and he seemed to be barely breathing. Hermione knew she'd gone overboard, and she expected a hex within the next three seconds. And she was ready. Any second now ..

But then his body jerked, and his shoulders sagged. The action seemed so out of place it momentarily disconcerted her. He stumbled a little, and leaned on the wall.

She stared at him wide-eyed.

"I know," he said hoarsely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note:** This has been extremely experimental to say the least, and I apologize in advance if this chapter lacked clarity. But uniform writing with clearly defined paragraphs seems boring to me, so here it is, anyway.

* * *

Draco felt cold.

The wall behind him felt colder, and he slumped even more. Years and years of upbringing hammered loudly inside his head, and every instinct screamed at him to stand up straight. To straighten his shoulders and his spine. His father's voice played in his head like an old recording, old and fading but so very familiar. _Straighter, Draco. A Malfoy never slumps._

_A Malfoy never fails._

_Yes, father .. _but he couldn't. His legs felt tired. Straightening up seemed like a herculean task. Breathing hard, Draco stared at the floor. Another childhood lesson floated in belatedly: always think of how you appear before others. Be careful of the image you portray.

So he wondered. He wondered what Hermione Granger thought of him .. now.

Her words had settled like fresh acid on his open, burnt bruises. She had said precisely what he knew already, and yet, her saying them out loud had shut something down in his head. Just like it had shut down this morning when he went looking for her after receiving Yorke's letter. Hermione Granger had been sucker punching him since third year, and she'd perfected the art even more since then.

_Think before you speak, Draco. _

_Too late now, father._

His father's voice quietened, and Draco found he could straighten his legs afterall. In the way of Malfoys', he cleared his throat quietly.

"I understand. Is that all you wanted to say?"

"I ..."

_Are you okay? _The words formed instinctively in her head and dissolved just as quickly. Was he? Clearly not. Was she worried? Absolutely not. Worried he might hex her and take her by surprise maybe, but definitely not for him.

_Then what?_

Hermione stared at him. She tried to think of what to say, but whatever thought formed inside her head was canceled out by some other thought. Draco Malfoy inspired twin emotions in her in a way nobody else did.

"I didn't expect him to actually back out of the deal before his contract was over."

An errant realization dawned on her. This was the first time she was staring at Malfoy while he stared at her. She wondered if he knew how many words clashed and collided inside her head right then. She wondered if she was as unreadable as he was, at that moment.

She was. Except for her outburtst, followed by the half mumbled _I ... _which Draco had registered all too well, Hermione Granger showed no signs of surprise. Or any other emotion, for that matter. Draco stared at her and wondered how long he could do so without coming off as .. un .. Malfoy-like.

Of course he knew she hadn't probably meant it. Yorke had been unwilling since the beginning, and whatever else she did, Hermione Granger was too darned good to fuck anyone over that blatantly. He knew that, except ..

Except that one second after reading the letter, where he'd felt a novel emotion associated with the girl he knew since eleven. He'd felt betrayed. He'd stood in his office stupidly and felt horribly betrayed by a girl who hated his guts. A girl whose guts he hated even more. What a fucking strange day.

"I know," he repeated, "that damn git wanted to back out since the beginning. He probably signed that fucking contract just so he could back out before it was over."

"So why didn't you put a clause for premature termination in it?"

Well, fuck.

The street beside his building seemed oddly quiet. Unsure of what time it was, he looked down the window.

Probably not the best idea to offer business advice to a person who'd even cut off his own finger just to prove her wrong, but then again, this day had been anything but the best.

"I couldn't."

Hermione looked at him quietly.

"There would have been no contract otherwise. Not having any clauses of that sort was a prerequisite."

Hermione stared at him now, well aware of her expression.

"You made the deal knowing he'd back out?"

Draco Malfoy smirked at her, still looking outside the window. His posture and that smirk was oddly reminiscent of his boyhood years. He seemed young and old at the same time, which disconcerted her even more. _Damn you, Malfoy._

'I should go now."

"Nothing to say to that, Granger? Too twisted for your sensibilities, isn't it?"

A whoosh of breath escaped her lips without warning. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of their circumstances. Late night, an empty office, mortal enemies since the beginning of time, talking like adults who were trapped in their own lives.

Before she could fully comprehend the situation any further, she turned towards the door.

"Goodbye, Malfoy."

"Goodnight, Granger."

_What? _

* * *

The next day, they thought about each other more than they had, ever, before.

Hermione sat her desk thinking about her life. One more curveball and she was taking her bookshelf and her plant and running off to a quiet place in the woods where no one messed with her head. Draco Malfoy had, as of yesterday, taken away one of her very few sources of pleasure in life. The thought of his crumbling company no longer gave her the satisfaction she didn't want but had craved nonetheless. Instead, now, it unsettled her stomach.

They had both gone ahead and expressed what they truly felt to each other yesterday, and Hermione didn't know if that was a good thing or bad. She hadn't expected him to act the way he had. At all. What on earth was happening? What on earth was wrong with her? She didn't want to feel sorry for that horrible git, damnit!

And her own outburst prior to that .. just the thought of it made her want to curl up in a ball. Expressing any kind of _feeling _in front of that man was a big, big mistake. And she'd all but hurled her's at him.

In retrospect, the whole idea of going to his office was a gigantic mistake. What had she expected? They'd talk and she'd sort out whatever that needed sorting and she'd leave with a quieter conscience?

What a joke.

Draco sat his desk thinking about Hermione Granger. Everything she'd told him periodically repeated itself in his head. The loudest was the very first thing.

_You deserve it._

Holier-Than-Thou Granger, telling him he deserved this failure of a life. All his boyhood spent on trying to best her because he was the one destined to be the best, and it all surmounted to this.

_She doesn't deserve to be at Hogwarts, Draco. She doesn't deserve a place with us. _

And wasn't life funny?


	5. Chapter 5

**Note**: Hello KiwiVirion! I don't have my stories posted anymore, since I took my blog down. But I hope I can reimagine some of them, now that I'm here. I keep forgetting I started a story because the habit's lost, but I'll try to be more regular. And thank YOU, for your feedback. :) You too, nachosandjazz!

* * *

Winter fell warm and cozy on the last week of December. Hermione's mood worsened. She read up books on depression, stayed up late reading some more on walking depression, and felt her heart sink.

If only she could figure out why ...

As a child, Hermione had loved mathematics. She'd been a problem solver since even before she'd known of the word, and maths had been therapeutic. She'd liked knowing there was a solution to every problem ever posed, and she'd spent precious holidays and long summer afternoons finding answers to questions.

When she came to Hogwarts, she'd missed mathematics immensely, and had been overjoyed when she'd found her passion again, in Arithmancy. She had thrived on understanding the philosophy of numbers, the harmony of it in nature, in time, in life. She'd reveled in it, and it had fed her logic-loving mind upto the brim.

And the fact that she now had a problem that could not be decoded, could not be understood, could not be pinpointed and isolated and studied to death, unsettled her even more than the problem itself.

She knew she wanted something out of life, and she was tired of running, because there was no running towards something. She wanted to be happy about life, excited about the work she did – but damned if she knew how.

She had to get out.

On a Saturday night, she slipped out to muggle London. It now gave her a little jolt – not used to seeing normal clothes and people without cloaks, shops with colorful lamps and beautiful dresses, with nothing flying around, and she felt her heart slow down.

She smelled coffee, then cakes, warm breads and sweet, milky concoctions, and wondered what she wanted.

Something... surely something ... maybe a tree too ...

One normal looking Malfoy stood beside a boutique, leaning on a motorbike. He wore a jacket that was the right note between shiny and matte, and his moonlit hair sat atop his head, rumpled. He looked up and met her eyes.

"Nice place, Granger."

"Hello, Malfoy."

Instantly she thought back to the last greeting that had transpired between them. Meetings with Malfoy were getting too frequent for comfort.

"Go on."

She bristled, hating her predictability, but curiosity won. She glanced at his bike.

"That's nice."

"_Nice?"_

"Whatever happened to those ridiculously expensive brooms you rode around in school?"

"Times change, Granger."

They sure did.

She stood quietly, both of them facing the boutique, watching people washed in warm lights, laughing, smiling, picking up gifts for Christmas. For friends, family, people they loved. The surreality of this situation was lost. Hermione's life had spiraled so out of any predictability nothing surprised her anymore. Periodically her brain would throw up one random line from her previous outburst, but she shushed that. She didn't want to think.

She especially didn't want to think why Malfoy stood beside her, _companionably, _quiet just like her.

"Whatever happened to your friends who wouldn't leave you alone for a minute in school?"

This time a laugh bubbled out.

_Times change. _"We can go back and forth like this for a long time, you know Malfoy."

"I always figured you'd go for teaching, Granger."

Surprised despite herself, she looked at him. He stared right ahead, not bothering to change his stance.

"Perfect Granger, deducting points off first year Slytherins for tripping good little Gryffindors in the hallway."

Crossing her arms, she let him speak.

"Going down in history as the know-it-all who finished reading all the books in our library."

"I don't think that's possible."

"I did. You'd crack your own neck before you stopped reading."

"And?"

"Lecturing people about every fucking thing under the sun."

"I don't lecture."

"Oh, right, you _educate. _You'd go around the school and educate anyone you could catch. Snotty nosed Hufflepuffs would run at the sight of you."

"That's what you think."

Now he looked at her. Could have been the light and the chill, but his smirk seemed almost like a smile. Except his eyes seemed cold.

"I do. I'll take your leave then Granger."

She moved aside, saw him strap on a mean looking helmet. His eyes peeped out, abnormally looking kinder than they'd seemed moments before.

"Nice meeting you?"

"Goodnight, Malfoy."

* * *

Draco took the longer route back home.

She'd caught him at a strange time, that's all. They kept meeting at strange times, that's for sure. And during strange times people did strange things. Like he had. He'd wanted to fill the quiet between them and said what he'd secretly thought for a while. But mostly he had said what he said to shut out the thoughts in his head.

He'd been looking at the family inside the boutique and wondering about his own. He didn't miss his parents, especially. He missed .. having people of his own, he supposed. Someone who was on his side, there for him.

With his parents out of the picture now, and friends – whatever that meant – magically disappeared, he realized he'd been alone his entire life. Once he'd surrounded himself with people who entertained him and acknowledged his superiority, and he'd been happy – whatever that meant as well. Life hadn't seemed so empty then. Shallow, but not empty. He wondered if that was a good thing, or bad.

Draco felt like a man who had suddenly lost all the certainty he had ever known in life.

God, he hated Granger. She seemed so infallible, especially now, when his life was falling apart. And he had fallen apart, literally no less, in front of her, of all people. Dancing naked in front of Potter would have been less painful. What was more painful was the fact that he could say nothing back to her.

Just before leaving muggle London, Draco stopped. And with his arms folded, he breathed quietly, deeply. In and out. In and out. Here, he was a man on a bike. Nothing more, nothing less. Draco reveled in the feeling. Just a man and his bike.

* * *

Hermione came back that night with two dozen cupcakes and a little table lamp. She placed it beside her bed and sat down to write a letter.

A strange idea played inside her head.

Before going to bed, she read the letter once more and ate a cupcake. And then thinking about Malfoy, she fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Note**: I enjoyed writing this chapter, can you tell?

* * *

The response came the very same day she'd sent her letter.

Hermione stood in her apartment looking down at the street next to her building, with the letter in her hands. She'd always been quick to take actions, even though some people liked to believe she debated and dissected everything to death before taking decisions. She did – but she was fast at that – and she had a trusty weapon by her side which allowed her to take decisions and act on them almost instantly.

Her gut.

But this response had come back too quickly, effectively snuffing her idea of stewing over the decision for a little more time. She was sure – she wouldn't have sent it otherwise, but ...

All of this because of that stupid Malfoy.

She could hardly call him stupid now though, because she'd clearly made a major decision based on something he'd said _just yesterday. _What was up with that anyway? Since when did Malfoy think anything else about her other than her dirty and disgusting blood?

_Not true_, her practical alter ego countered. They'd witnessed too much bloodshed to think about blood anymore, she knew. Even Malfoy, who had been the champion of blood purity in their days at Hogwarts.

_Well, still! _She huffed. Malfoy was enough of a ferret, even without his prejudices.

But ferret-Malfoy had said something and she'd done something based on that, and now with all said and done, it was happening.

Could it be ... that the idea of it had been laying dormant in her mind for longer than she knew? Her brain – something she was the most proud of – had been robbed of its clarity for so long since the war, she didn't know what she thought of, anymore.

But her gut had known, which was the only explanation for a decision that seemed too quick and irrational but made perfect sense. And it made her want to look forward to something, after a long, long time.

* * *

Monday, Draco looked down at the harmless file which sat open before him, wishing he could set it on fire.

_You have no sense of business!_

_I know, _he repeated, studying the graphs before him. _I know, I know, I know. _His insides had knotted up the minute he'd laid his eyes on the file which he'd asked for himself, and with each passing minute, they choked him a little harder.

Whatever the file said wasn't new to him, just like whatever Granger had said hadn't been. But hearing it from her – out loud – and then seeing it so blatantly on paper made him feel like digging up the ground some more and hitting a new low.

The file recorded the growth of Malfoy Industries over the last twenty years. And it was all in bold red since the war – going down a smooth slope with little letters written underneath.

**CEO: Draco Malfoy**

An early Christmas gift. He closed the file and leaned back on the chair that had been in this office for three generations. He'd asked for it, and even though he'd believed he could handle it, he couldn't.

Taking his cloak, he stepped out of his office. It was at the end of a long corridor, purposefully designed to keep the top boss separated from the rest of the office, but mostly to evoke a sense of trepidation in anyone who approached it from the other side. He looked at the age old walls - that had last been redesigned by his mother - with grand wooden portraits of the Malfoy family looking down at him as he walked, with a sense of trepidation weighing him down.

The entire building seemed just as it was when he was younger, grand and pompous and sure of itself – like the members of his family – with expensive artifacts and sweeping hallways, except now he sensed the hollow skeleton of it. And it taunted him. Apparently, walls didn't just have ears, they could mock you too.

Suffocating at the sight around him, he hurried outside.

The first face he saw right out of his office building was of Granger.

_For fuck's sake._

He couldn't deal with her now, especially when he felt like the biggest failure in the world, and he took a sharp turn.

"Malfoy!"

_Leave me alone. _He pretended not to listen and hurried up the steps. And stumbled when he felt her tugging at his cloak.

_What THE FUCK!_

He turned back and glared at her, looking down at where she stood a few steps below. She seemed to quickly register how much she disliked being looked down upon, and glared right back and joined him on his step.

Then her eyes ... unhardened? The expression could hardly be referred to as soft .. just as quickly as it had hardened, and she regarded him carefully.

Draco knew he was unreadable.

"Why did you think I would be a teacher?"

_What? _Draco's brain huffed and puffed and stopped its engine abruptly.

"What?"

She looked at him as if he'd failed to answer some elementary question on Herbology in class, and pursed her lips.

"Last Saturday you told me you thought I'd be a teacher."

She spoke slowly, which might be why he had an urge to snap.

"Don't you have work?"

"Just answer my question."

"Leave me alone, Granger."

He moved but felt her tugging at his sleeve. It was a gentle tug, hardly noticeable, but he felt as if his entire body had concentrated all its blood flow right to his hand. She didn't seem to notice, looking at his face (which he sincerely hoped was still unreadable, because he was starting to doubt his poker-face skills), and he belated remembered Hermione Granger had always been a physical person. A violent and assaultive kind, but physical nonetheless.

He tugged his hand back and hissed at her.

"I'm not one of your subordinate cronies Granger, so stop this twaddle at once and _leave me alone."_

Her jaw stiffed, and his body relaxed a little, sensing familiar apathy.

But then she seemed to hold back though, and even with eyes spitting fire, she spoke calmly.

"I need to know why you said it."

"Why?"

She didn't look like she would answer the question, but she did. "Because I need to _know."_

Typical Granger."Of course you do, Granger. Can hardly sleep at night without knowing every fucking thing, I know."

He'd wished this would finally drive her away, but it didn't. He was surprised, because up until the Yorke fiasco, they had always maintained a comfortable distance, which translated to seeing as little of each other as possible.

But nothing _after _the Yorke fiasco had been comfortable, with his insides threatening to choke him to death and Granger being ... like this, for whatever twisted reason she had.

"Tell me."

She really was the most bull-headed person he knew. He fought to regain his composure, each second feeling like an hour and every instinct asking him to just _push _her off the steps so she'd stop asking questions and he would be left to wallow in his own misery of being the biggest failure of the universe - and barely won at keeping his insecurities aside.

_Not now_, he ordered them. _Not when she's here, never again._

"We all thought so, Granger. Even Filch and his disgusting cat."

She looked surprised, but stayed silent, which meant he had to say more.

"Bossy know-it-alls thrive on lecturing. Educating," he corrected, still looking at her surprised face and thinking he'd seen Granger's face for a record amount of time in the past few days, "everyone who dares to come in their vicinity. You fit perfectly in the shoes of an old spinster cat lady, sitting in a stuffy room with your cat grading papers.

All of _us _thought so – when we weren't busy trashing your filthy blood."

He thought he'd finally done it – added enough spite to make her turn up her nose in contempt and fuck – huff – off, but he was wrong, again.

She bristled, but mildly, without heat, almost as if those cruel words barely registered in her brain.

"I spoke to McGonagall today."

"Why are you telling me this?"

_That _finally caught her attention enough, and this time, her entire body stiffened. 'Right" she spoke her under breath and hurried down the steps.

'Wait!"

The words were out before he'd processed them, and he was just as surprised as she seemed when she turned.

"You're leaving your job?"

She frowned, and looking almost appalled, she said, "No. Of course not."

And she was gone.

Another mystery.

When Draco returned to his office, he barely glanced around, thinking about Strange Granger. Granger getting stranger. Stranger Granger.


End file.
